


If Only

by thisisforyou



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-27
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:49:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/497039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisforyou/pseuds/thisisforyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Sherlock wished Mycroft wasn't his brother, and one time he didn't mind. NOT Holmescest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock was four and Mycroft was eleven, they were best friends.

Well – if you were to ask four year-old Sherlock who his best friend was, he would have answered 'my big brother' before you'd even finished asking the question. If you were to ask eleven year-old Mycroft who his best friend was, he would have thought for a long while before providing you with a diplomatic answer involving a few other first-year Etonians, some older students and perhaps a professor or two. Sherlock would have been discounted on account of being _family_ ; and any well-educated eleven year-old knows that your family and your friends are two separate things and that is quite simply that.

Little Sherlock thought that Mycroft was God on earth, or he would have if he'd ever believed in either of those things. Mycroft thought that Sherlock was annoying and too loud and completely incapable of _picking his moments_.

It was one of those moments.

Mycroft was working on a particularly complicated political essay that was probably at least four years above his age-level and had left clear instructions written on the door of his bedroom that he was Not To Be Disturbed. While four year-old Sherlock could read perfectly well, thank-you very much, he wasn't quite tall enough to read the sign.

It would take years for Sherlock to learn the skill of entering a room quietly, and years more for him to learn to _apply_ this skill in the right moments. At age four, he knew the word _subtlety_ only in a hypothetical sense.

"My!"

A careful line of neat handwriting jumped nervously across the page. "Sherlock! Didn't you see the sign?"

Dark curls that Mrs Holmes could never bring herself to get rid of flew from side to side as the whirlwind of barely-contained energy shook its head. "Too high. What's it say?"

"What _does_ it say," Mycroft corrected quickly. "It says I'm busy, Sherlock. I'm doing schoolwork."

Sherlock huffed the sigh of the mortally aggrieved. "Your schoolwork is _boring_. Why would you do something all day that's _boring_?"

Mycroft put his pen down and turned to face his younger brother, not bothering in the slightest to conceal his irritation. "It might be boring, but it'll pay off in the end and I'll have a good and easy life. Which you won't have if you're always so noisy and annoying."

"Good and easy is boring."

The little boy's pout almost made Mycroft's frustration die out. Sherlock was still so _young._ He couldn't be blamed for the things he didn't know about life. "You have to do some boring work sometimes so that you can do the exciting work that you want to do later. Do you know what you want to be when you're grown-up, Sherlock?" he asked gently.

Sherlock nodded furiously. "I'm going to run away from the boring people and be a pirate. So I don't need to do any boring work ever."

The corners of Mycroft's cruelly-put-together mouth twitched upwards. Mycroft's mouth was not made for smiles; from the day he was born, his lips were suited for stern looks and calculating glares. Sometimes he envied the way his younger brother's face lit up so easily with the provision of a new and interesting occupation. "There are things you'd have to give up as a pirate, too, though, Sherlock," he explained patiently. "You'll never be able to marry anyone, for example. Mummy would be disappointed."

"Why do you marry people, My?"

Mycroft blew out his cheeks in frustration. _Because Mummy wants you to? Because society expects it of you?_ "Because you love them."

The little boy sat down heavily on the floor and crossed his arms, beaming. "Then I'll marry _you._ There's room for you on the pirate ship, I don't mind."

He actually chuckled. "You can't marry me, Sherlock."

"But I love you."

The conversation, he judged, had reached the point where he should abandon ship entirely when it came to the essay and leave his chair, crouching to sit cross-legged in front of his younger brother. "I know. But… you marry someone when you love them in a _different way_."

Sherlock blinked, nonplussed. "I love you in _every_ way."

Mycroft's smile was starting to grow to the point where even someone who didn't know him would notice it. How did he explain marriage to a four year-old? "I… that's… it's illegal for you to marry me."

"Why?"

"Well, for one thing, we're both boys. In England a boy can only marry a girl."

Sherlock's smile, apparently, was not to be deterred, and his boundless imagination seemed to have an answer to everything. "I'll have a pirate ship. We can go somewhere it isn't illegal."

He sighed, suddenly imagining that a much older Sherlock in a creaky old pirate ship could probably counteract so many arguments, offer so many reasons and justifications, that he'd give in and marry him just to make him quiet down. "It'll still be illegal, Sherlock, because we're family. You're not allowed to marry your brother in _any_ country."

Sherlock was silent for a long while; Mycroft felt an immature flickering of smugness at being able to produce a stipulation to which his brother could not brandish a loophole. Finally his younger brother looked up at him, his already striking green-grey eyes wide and sad.

"I wish you weren't my brother," he said slowly.

Mycroft remembered then that he was supposed to be annoyed. "Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual," he huffed out, standing up and moving back to the desk. "Now get out of my room."

It wasn't until the door closed quietly behind the dejected little boy that he started to feel a twinge of guilt. After all, he wanted Sherlock to _always_ love him this fiercely.


	2. Chapter 2

By the time Sherlock was seventeen and Mycroft twenty-four, things were rather different.

If you asked Sherlock who his best friend was he'd give you a disparaging look and tell you he didn't need friends. If you asked Mycroft who his best friend was he'd take the time to do some research and find out who you _wanted_ him to be best friends with, just in case someone mentioned it to his superiors.

Sherlock thought Mycroft was a pompous, uncaring arsehole. Mycroft thought Sherlock was nothing like the little boy he used to have pretend swordfights with when Mummy wasn't home.

"Have you made a decision as to university, Sherlock?" he asked, not bothering to look up from the policy drafts he was proofreading; he could tell by the sheer _fury_ with which the newcomer had entered his office that it was his brother.

Sherlock huffed; a noise which thoroughly emanated _I knew it. I knew you'd act like this._ "Yes. I'm not going to university."

He looked up at this, bewildered enough to let it show on his face. The teen was standing, posture defiant, eyes wild and daring, begging his older brother to take a swing at him. Mycroft sighed; unfortunately this love of confrontation was neither a new thing nor, he was beginning to suspect, something his brother would grow out of. "I beg your pardon?"

"I'm not going. They can't teach me anything I don't already know or can't find out myself. I'll set up my own business."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow coolly. "In what? Piracy?"

Sherlock returned the gesture with an equal amount of calm animosity. "No. I'll be a detective. I'll open a detective agency."

The elegant, pearl-plated fountain pen Mycroft was using to annotate the papers hit the padding on the desk carefully. "Please. I cannot imagine you as a private detective, pandering to the whims of every rich and paranoid man certain that his wife is being unfaithful."

"I won't be a private detective. I'll be a _consulting_ detective. I can consult for Scotland Yard as well, and then I'll only have to take the interesting cases." Sherlock's posture was still ridiculously defiant, propping himself up as if for battle. "I don't want to be like you."

He stood up then, a flare of anger shooting through his bloodstream. He _was_ happy – how dare Sherlock suggest that he was unhappy with his life, that the path he had chosen was unsatisfactory? "Sherlock, I will not see you throw away your life, your _brains_ , for some fickle romantic notion that you will find extremely difficult and disappointing to bring into reality."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes coldly at his older brother. "You're not Father, you know."

Mycroft forced himself to take a deep breath. The implication that he was attempting to take paternal control of his brother's life hit close enough to the truth to be painful. He just wanted what was _best_ for Sherlock, what would make him happy in the long run. Sherlock was wayward and flighty, and Mycroft knew all too well that this detective agency might be what he wanted _now_ , but the dream wouldn't live long enough to ever become reality.

Really, he thought, his brother would have made an excellent pirate. He was a romantic at heart, jumping from pleasure to pleasure with positively Harlequinean ideals of what he wanted. Sherlock wanted blazing sunsets and gunfights and car-chases, heroes and villains and masterminds and everything to be _clever_. Mycroft just couldn't teach him that the real world wasn't like that.

He sighed. "I'm aware of that, Sherlock. I am simply trying to ensure what is _best_ for you –"

"You have no idea what's _best for me._ "

That was probably painfully true. For a moment he wished their parents had played a more active role in their childhood; wished it _wasn't_ his job to rein in this blaze of glory. "I am your brother, Sherlock," was all he could think to say.

Sherlock glowered at him. "Yeah, and I wish you weren't," he muttered, turning on his heel. He slammed the door behind him so hard a portrait of Fitzwilliam Holmes the Younger fell from its hook on the wall and shattered.


	3. Chapter 3

They didn't see each other again until Sherlock was twenty-two and Mycroft, twenty-nine.

If you were to ask Sherlock who his best friend was, he'd glare at you for just long enough to make you feel uncomfortable before walking away without answering. If you were to ask Mycroft who his best friend was, he might get a sad kind of look in his hazel eyes before pulling himself together and giving you a painfully diplomatic answer involving the phrase 'married to my work'.

Sherlock thought of Mycroft only when he needed to punch something. Mycroft thought of Sherlock all the time as a sort of self-imposed punishment regime before he went to sleep at night, as a reminder of where _caring_ got you.

The mother they shared constantly implored Mycroft to find and 'fix' his younger brother, so perhaps it was fitting that the thing which finally propelled him to seek his brother, comatose in a gutter in Southwark, was her death.

Either way, it took forty minutes and three buckets of water before he could make the young delinquent wake up, and a further fifty before the message sank in. Mycroft wasn't sure what he was expecting; it wasn't as if their mother had ever been particularly _present,_ but surely her complete and utter _absence_ now was supposed to mean something to her sons?

Sherlock merely shrugged. "Fine. Now piss off."

He'd be the first to admit he was shocked. "Sherlock. _Our mother_ is dead. I do not believe 'fine' is the response intended."

The young man – his cheekbones jutting from his too-thin face like rocky outcrops on a cliff-face – curled his tatty clothes tighter around him and shifted away from his brother. "Well, she should have thought about that once or twice. It doesn't mean anything to me, Mycroft. Go away."

"Good Lord," Mycroft breathed gently, properly taking in the sight of his brother. Sherlock had always been thin, but two years of shunning all possible help had made a wastrel of him. The planes and angles of his body stuck out to such an extent that Mycroft was afraid to touch him in case he broke the paper-thin layer of skin-cells over the bones and cut himself on the sharp edges. The crook of his left arm was exposed, and the government official flinched to see the bruising from the point of many needles. "What's happened to you?"

Sherlock was scrambling to his feet before Mycroft could lay aside his umbrella, his face contorting into a snarl of rage. "When did _you_ ever care? What – now Mother's dead you're suddenly going to take an interest in my life? I'm _fine._ Piss off."

"You are clearly not fine, Sherlock. And I fail to see how this environment is stimulating your mind."

He was rewarded with a glare as sharp as the hipbones jutting out over the waistband of his brother's jeans. "I'm dealing with it, Mycroft."

The government official raised a delicate eyebrow. "Evidently." He looked around for somewhere to sit down, but this was the middle of Southwark and he was fighting the urge as it was to have his suit drycleaned the minute he got back to the office. Catching himself thinking longingly of Downing Street, he shook his head slightly. This was _Sherlock_. When had that adorable and affectionate little boy become such a burden? "I don't suppose any offers of assistance would come to fruition."

"You're probably right." Sherlock sniffed and looked around, a very pointed suggestion that the conversation was over. Mycroft's lips tightened. "Lestrade asked me to help him last week. Told me I should start charging for my 'service'. If I wanted to make a job out of it, I could."

Mycroft thought of the way his brother looked at the Detective Inspector whose crime-scenes Sherlock had been stumbling into for months now and wondered cruelly which _service_ the older man had been talking about. "Then why have you not done so already?" The younger man's eyes dropped almost imperceptibly to the crook of his elbow before affixing steadily on a building opposite. "I am merely offering you support, Sherlock. As your _brother_."

He wasn't sure why he kept pulling the family card on Sherlock when it so obviously didn't mean anything to him. Sure enough, the addict turned disgusted grey eyes on his brother. "Really," he spat derisively. "Because you've always been so _brotherly_ , haven't you, Mycroft? I don't need your guilt money. Piss off."

The older man flicked his black umbrella so that the finial point tapped against the brick of the building behind him. "A word of advice, Sherlock," he offered as he straightened his lapels to leave. His brother snorted in disgust and turned away. "Keep your emotions and affections to yourself where they concern Detective Inspector Lestrade. I don't wish to see you hurt."

"What, like you?" Sherlock had whirled around, his fists clenched, eyes wild. "You – you don't – you have _no idea_ what it's like to feel _anything_ , do you? You can't imagine how often I wished you'd _show_ whether or not you loved me as a child, wished I could have a brother who was _affectionate_. It's not a _weakness_ , Mycroft. You don't know anything."

For a moment he felt sad, and he couldn't quite tell whether it was despair at his brother's naiveté - pity in advance for how he would feel when his precious Detective Inspector broke his heart – or a tiny jealousy that Sherlock had _let_ himself get close to other people, the fleeting knowledge that his brother was, as well as more likely to be hurt than he was, more likely to succeed in his endeavours. One day, perhaps, Sherlock would find someone who _would_ return his affections. It was unlikely _he_ ever would.

He lowered his eyes, and it wasn't lost on Sherlock, who smirked self-righteously and attempted, perhaps in a last shot at dignity, to pull his clothes tighter around him much in the way one would throw a cape over their shoulders and march off in a huff. As a childish parting shot, Mycroft gave his little brother one last look up and down. "I suggest, though, Sherlock, that you abandon the cocaine if you wish to truly gain the Detective Inspector's affections and respect."

And with that, he turned away – resisting the urge to stick his nose in the air any more than usual and suddenly realising _exactly_ why Sherlock had spent the last ten years calling him a pompous git – and left his brother fumbling in his pockets for a syringe.

When someone informed him three weeks later that Sherlock had been voluntarily checked into a detox program by one Detective Inspector Lestrade, he wasn't sure whether to be surprised or smug.


	4. Chapter 4

On Sherlock's thirtieth birthday, when Mycroft was thirty-six, he met Detective Inspector Lestrade for the first time.

Sherlock wasn't very happy about this, because he was extraordinarily close to calling the DI his best friend and he didn't appreciate the habit that his friendless older brother seemed to have developed of ruining everything. However, it was that or face the family's celebration of his third decade alone, and there was always the possibility that the two of them would get called away to investigate some murder or other.

Mycroft thought that Sherlock had grown up a lot in the past eight years. Sherlock thought it might be possible that Mycroft had become _less_ mature.

Actually, he hadn't even thought about inviting Lestrade to the birthday dinner until the DI had turned up on his doorstep at nine in the morning with his hands held sheepishly behind his back.

"Please," Sherlock had begged, his mind already racing with how this could get him out of the dreaded celebration. "Tell me you have a case."

Lestrade looked vaguely awkward. "Um. No. I just came to say happy birthday, actually."

If Sherlock had had things his own way, the other man wouldn't even _know_ his birthday. But of course his friend had been perceptive enough to read it on the papers he'd had to sign to check Sherlock into the detox program eight years ago, and hadn't missed one since. "Oh," Sherlock huffed, trying to pretend he wasn't pleased. "Thank you. Come in."

He'd never made a big deal out of his birthday; really, the only reason he _remembered_ it was because his family insisted on celebrating it. Well, he wasn't a fool. He knew Mycroft was behind all these ridiculous dinners. But in the past eight years he'd come to look forward to the date, to look forward to the DI turning up at his flat with a cheesecake from the bakery on Wainscot Street and an off-key rendition of Stevie Wonder's _Happy Birthday_.

Sure enough, Lestrade moved his hands round to the front, producing a white cake-box, a six-pack of some kind of beer and a flat, wrapped package. Sherlock couldn't contain a small smile. "Thank you."

"Not a problem." The DI shook the rain off his jacket in Sherlock's hallway before following him into the main room. The little one-bedroom flat was dark and poky, and the sounds of the street were startlingly loud. But then again, Lestrade had found the man sleeping in a gutter, so at least things were moving in the right direction. "So business has been a bit slow, then?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's been fine. I only don't have anything right now because I think my brother would have me murdered if I missed the dinner tonight for some 'trivial little puzzle'." He made a face. Lestrade snorted, clearing an ashtray off the coffee table and putting the cake down instead.

"The dinner?"

The face became more pronounced. "Mycroft insists on holding a birthday dinner for me every year. Apparently thirty is a big celebration, so everyone in the family is going to be there. Personally, I'd rather have my toenails pulled out with tweezers."

Lestrade blinked. "Okay." Sherlock rummaged in a drawer under the sink for the bottle-opener he'd bought after the DI had started coming around for drinks; by the time he found it and went back through to the living-room, the older man had managed to open a bottle with his bare hands and was holding it out to him. He grinned as Sherlock threw the implement on the table and took the bottle.

"The only reason I _have_ one of those is because of you," he grumbled. "You could at least let me use it."

He flopped onto the sofa beside his friend and peered dubiously at the label. Lestrade chuckled. "It's just weird. You're a thirty year-old single man and you didn't own a bottle-opener until I mentioned that it was strange." Sherlock shrugged carelessly and tentatively tried a sip from the bottle. It seemed palatable. "So, go on," he said cheerfully. "Open your present."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know what I think of birthday presents."

"Well, I'd say you've got to get used to it if you're having dinner with the aunts and uncles," the DI teased. "Don't worry. It's something you need this time."

The consulting detective raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Like what, _The Single Man's Guide to London Pubs?_ "

Lestrade laughed again. "No, unfortunately they were all out of the latest edition. Something _you_ need."

So Sherlock adopted a suspicious expression and took the package. He'd thought it was a book, but when it was in his hands he realised it was too heavy; the suspicious expression intensified as he ripped off the crude neon wrapping-paper.

It was an address-plate, the kind people stuck on the gate of large houses with ostentatious names. Sherlock blinked as he looked down at it, simply engraved in copperplate writing.

_Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective._

"Your landlord complained last time I was here looking for you that people kept knocking on the wrong door. This way, they'll know where you are," the DI said proudly. Sherlock was temporarily speechless. He'd been expecting something Lestrade thought was humorous, or one of those useless but polite gifts that nobody ever needed. This – this was useful, and tasteful. He wiped over his name with a finger. _Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective._ It sounded so important.

He swallowed. "Thank you." Suddenly Sherlock was fighting back tears, and he didn't fully understand why; nobody had ever made him feel like the job he'd made for himself was _worth_ anything before. And yet, Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed to think it was worthy of a brass plate in its – and his – honour.

Unfortunately, Lestrade noticed. "Hey! What's wrong?"

Sherlock tried to shake his head, but his throat had closed up and it was far too difficult to talk. The DI shifted closer on the sofa and put a hand on his back; pathetically, Sherlock felt himself lean into the contact. "No-one's ever…" he tried finally. "Mycroft always acted like wanting to be a _consulting detective_ was stupid and pathetic. Just a stupid childhood fantasy. I… It's because of you that it's real."

Lestrade snorted. "That brother of yours sounds like a right prat. I'd like to meet him and give him a decent talking-to, it sounds like no-one's ever done _that_ before either."

"There's a reason people don't give Mycroft a talking-to," Sherlock warned him. Stupidly enough, it wasn't until then that the idea presented itself. "Actually, you _could –_ I mean, it's a lot to ask, but… are you busy tonight?"

He could see the request work itself out in the DI's head. "What, you want me to come to this birthday dinner thing of yours? Isn't it, like… a family thing?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It's my birthday party. I can bring who I want. I mean, if you can't, don't worry, but… it'd be nice for them to see that there's someone who believes in me."

"I'm not the only person who believes in you, Sherlock," Lestrade assured him. "But yes, absolutely, I'll go."

He tried not to look too pathetically pleased, but it was difficult and he wasn't sure he succeeded. "Thank you."

Lestrade looked at the coffee table between them. "Shall we save the cake, then, and I'll bring that?"

"No," Sherlock said quickly, snatching the box – the cake was something he associated with _Lestrade,_ and he didn't want that memory to be tainted by his family. "We should eat the cake now."

* * *

"They'll want this to be very formal," Sherlock warned his friend as they got out of the cab in front of his mother's front door. "Don't worry about feeling out-of-place. I _always_ feel out-of-place in my family."

Lestrade tugged nervously at his tie. "Right, thanks, Sherlock, that's reassuring," he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. The consulting detective smiled at him.

"Don't worry. You look good."

This was _very_ true. Sherlock had mused more than once that it was probably lucky the DI lacked observational skills, because his discomfort in the cab when confronted with Lestrade's suit had been fairly obvious. He wasn't quite sure how Lestrade would react if he discovered that Sherlock was harbouring a juvenile sort of crush on him, but he knew it wouldn't be in his favour. The man was _married,_ for God's sake.

Hope swelled in his chest as he knocked on the door, a firm copper's hand reassuringly rested on his elbow. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad. He could get through it with Lestrade at his side, defending him from relatives who would undoubtedly start to ask when he was going to get a _real job._

Then the door swung open to reveal Mycroft, for once without his traditional umbrella, his waistcoat hanging open and his hazel eyes bright. "Ah! Sherlock," he exclaimed loudly – too loudly, warning the people in the sitting-room – holding the door open for them to pass. "And Detective Inspector Lestrade as well? It's lovely to finally meet you, Inspector, I was thinking Sherlock was never going to introduce us."

"I wasn't," Sherlock said mock-cheerfully, glaring daggers at his brother.

Lestrade, on the other hand, was smiling at the older Holmes. "Mycroft, isn't it? Yes, well – from what I've heard you haven't always had the greatest support for Sherlock's chosen career."

Sherlock glowed with pride as his brother's smug expression faltered for a moment. "Nonsense," he rejoined finally. "Sherlock and I will perhaps never be best friends, but I have always sought to assist him in whatever avenue of life he chooses to wander down. Can I get you a drink, Inspector?"

The DI looked at Sherlock as Mycroft swept off down the hall, frowning slightly. "He doesn't seem that bad," he said curiously. "Actually, he seems like a really nice man. Are you sure you're not just overreacting? Sibling rivalry, and all that?"

Sherlock watched his friend follow his brother into the sitting-room of his mother's house, his chest deflating like a punctured football. Of _course_ Mycroft's diplomatic likeability would win out. This was a really stupid idea.

_God_ , he wished he had a normal older brother.


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock was thirty-four and Mycroft was forty-one, things changed forever.

If you asked Sherlock who his best friend was, he would smile and proudly introduce you to Doctor John Watson, RAMC. If you asked Mycroft who his best friend was, he would laugh bitterly and tell you not to be juvenile.

Sherlock thought Mycroft was a pain in the arse. Mycroft thought Sherlock was unbelievably lucky that not only was his fantasy of a job actually generating more than enough income to live comfortably, but he'd found someone who not simply believed in him but _admired_ him – and he wouldn't tell you, but he was a teensy bit proud of him.

Mycroft was sitting in his office reading over a submission for the UN council the day he discovered just how much Doctor Watson meant to his brother. He'd closed his door and left his assistant with implicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed. Of course, this wasn't enough to keep out Sherlock Holmes, if he wanted to come in.

He looked up from the proposal – a fairly ridiculous request from Russia that it was already evident that China, at least, would refuse – to the sound of his assistant arguing with his brother.

"But Mr Holmes left instructions not to be disturbed, he's –"

"I don't care if he's shagging Barack Obama to prevent nuclear fallout with America, I'm going in there."

Mycroft rolled his eyes and opened his door, poking his head around to see his assistant standing firmly in front of it and Sherlock looking as though he were poised to throw her aside, his cheeks an angry pink. He wondered what could be so important as to make his brother so flustered. "It's all right, thank you, Miss Martin," he deferred silkily. "I have safely removed President Obama to the ensuite bathroom."

She turned around and gave him a tiny amused grin. "Very good, sir," she said, moving aside. Sherlock glared at the two of them before stalking past Mycroft into the office. Mycroft allowed himself to send his assistant a long-suffering expression. The grin briefly showed itself again before he closed the door.

"You kidnapped John again," Sherlock accused before he'd even turned around.

He sighed at the back of the door. "Excuse me?" he asked, turning around. His brother was standing in front of his desk with his arms folded and a highly accusatory frown on his fine-boned face.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "You heard me. John came home half an hour late today after you _kidnapped_ him."

"I did not _kidnap_ him," Mycroft protested, folding his arms over his chest in as calm a manner as he could manage.

"You _threatened him_ until he got into the car! What do you call that?" the consulting detective shouted.

Mycroft forced himself to take a deep breath. "Merely an incentive, Sherlock," he said calmly, knowing how weak it sounded. Really his brother had a rather firm argument. "The good doctor would not have got into the car without it."

"Exactly – isn't that the _definition_ of kidnapping?"

A small smile twisted on the elder Holmes' face. "I believe the definition of kidnapping involves the use of physical force."

Sherlock threw his arms up in irritation. "Why do you always do this? Can't I have _one friend_?"

Mycroft manoeuvred himself back behind his desk to give himself a more secure base for the argument that his brother was clearly determined to have. "You are talking like a child, Sherlock," he reprimanded.

"You're behaving like a jealous prat! Every time someone shows even half an interest in getting close to me you _kidnap_ them and _threaten_ them until they're too scared to come anywhere near me! It's not fair, Mycroft. Don't you think I can choose my own friends?"

The government official stopped in the tracks he'd been making towards his counter-argument; his brother sounded dangerously close to tears. Sherlock hadn't cried since he was six years old, and even then he'd broken both his wrists trying to prove it was possible to land safely after jumping off the top of the fireman's pole in the playground. "Has Doctor Watson decided to end your association, then, Sherlock?" he asked.

His brother pouted childishly. "No. Not _yet_. But he _will_ if you keep kidnapping him! Why can't you… I've known him for a week now and you've kidnapped him _twice_. Maybe I'd put up with it if it was just once, and _after_ he'd had a chance to get to know me on my own – if you'd just _wait_ a few weeks – but no, you have to kidnap him before he's even known me for twenty-four hours!"

Mycroft let the silence sit for a few moments. "I am merely attempting to secure your best interests –"

"What, by scaring everyone away so I'll always be alone?" Sherlock interrupted. Mycroft eyed him severely for a moment before he folded his arms again and stood back.

"By speaking to your associates as soon after they meet you as possible, Sherlock, we eliminate the people unsuited to your lifestyle before you form a close attachment to them. If Doctor Watson was not 'scared off' after our first meeting, it is unlikely subsequent meetings will have a bigger effect on him."

Sherlock stared at his brother for a moment. Then all at once the fight seemed to go out of him; he stumbled to the chair in front of Mycroft's huge desk and collapsed into it. "What if they do?" he said, so softly the elder brother almost didn't catch it.

Intrigued by this reaction, Mycroft leaned forwards, resting his elbows on the desk and his chin on his fists. "What is it about Doctor Watson that is different from the rest, Sherlock?" he asked quietly.

The detective lifted his head out of his hands. "I don't know yet," he admitted. "But there's _something_ , and I won't let you take it." Sherlock stood up and straightened his black jacket, suddenly the picture of composition. "Kidnap him again, Mycroft," he threatened sternly, "and I will make you suffer."

Mycroft offered his brother a thin-lipped smile. "You may find that rather difficult."

Sherlock made a frustrated noise. "Why do I have to have _you_ for a brother?" he delivered as his parting shot, before throwing his arms up again and marching out of the office.

"You can let the President out of the bathroom now, Mycroft," he threw over his shoulder as his assistant watched his younger brother march determinedly out of the office.

The woman left her desk and made her way into his doorway. "Everything all right, sir?" she asked, in such a would-be-casual manner that Mycroft couldn't help but smile.

"Thank you, Miss Martin," he dismissed. "My brother is merely protesting my security measures."

A finely-pencilled eyebrow made a skywards bid. "Security measures, sir? You mean your meeting with Doctor Watson this afternoon?"

He smiled at her again. "He seems tremendously attached to the man already. I wonder if it's healthy."

"Oh, I think so, sir," the woman replied, offering her own tight smile in return. "More than _healthy_ , if the Doctor is also as attached as he seemed this afternoon."

Mycroft tightened his lips and waved his assistant out of his office; but as her words sank in properly, he couldn't quite suppress the twinge of jealousy that rose up in his stomach.


	6. ...and One

When Mycroft turned forty-three, Sherlock was dead.

He'd never really had very many reasons to celebrate his birthday, but to say that today he was not in the mood would be a grievous understatement.

He hadn't missed the fact that his assistant had hastily stashed a bottle of champagne and a significant amount of unhealthy food under her desk when she'd seen the look on his face. Bless her: she'd always made a fuss of his birthday, and yet she was so attuned to his minute shifts in expression as to know that the gesture would not be appreciated.

As he was on his way home he'd cancelled the small gathering of a few old acquaintances that had been arranged. They'd all understood: even though he'd pretended to believe in this feud Sherlock had always tried to keep alive, apparently it had been obvious how much the younger Holmes had meant to him.

Mycroft's hand shook as he tried to let himself into his flat. He wasn't entirely sure how he had managed to keep working for the last two weeks, running mostly on autopilot and only averting full-out war with China at the last minute after a suggestion from his assistant.

He'd have to remember to give that woman a bonus.

His hand was shaking so hard he couldn't fit the key into the lock. None of this would have happened if it wasn't for him. Sherlock had _told_ him, he'd _said_ : he'd taken great delight in informing John that his brother would sell his soul if it helped him. He'd been horrifically offended.

And yet, that was really what he'd done. The first criminal that refused to crack under interrogation, and he'd poured out the essence of his brother into James Moriarty's willing mouth in exchange for a couple of petty criminals and solved cold-cases. Someone might say in his defence that he couldn't possibly have known the extent of Moriarty's _obsession._

What was it John Watson had said? _Moriarty wanted Sherlock destroyed, and you have given him the perfect ammunition._

Forget what the public thought, forget even what John Watson thought. _He_ had killed Sherlock, not James Moriarty. What was the line? _Guns don't kill people. People kill people_. Jim Moriarty couldn't have done it on his own. All it would have taken was a little more strength.

But who could know how many lives Moriarty would have taken instead? How can he possibly equate the life of his own brother to possibly hundreds of British citizens?

The arguments had looped around and around in his head for the two weeks since Sherlock fell. His people had removed Moriarty's body from the rooftop the next day and he'd let John know what had happened; the poor doctor had still assumed Sherlock had committed suicide, and he'd been glad Mrs Hudson's shoulder was preferable to his own when John learned the truth.

Well, as much of the truth as they knew. Mycroft supposed they'd never know for sure exactly why Sherlock jumped, but he could only assume there was some sort of threat to the people Sherlock cared about. He wondered if that had included him.

In the kitchen, Mycroft reached for the decanter of Cognac he kept in a cupboard for emergencies. The past two weeks had certainly been an emergency. He poured himself a reasonable measure and proceeded into the living-room, flicking on the lights as he went.

"Oh, good, you're home."

He dropped the tumbler, mouth falling open in an extremely undignified manner. Sherlock Holmes lifted an eyebrow from the armchair by the empty fireplace, smirking.

"Sh…Sherlock?"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes. "Please. You didn't _actually_ think I'd killed myself, did you?"

"I… I… no, but… we found Moriarty's body," he managed finally, his brain not quite managing to cut through the static and the scratched record of _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._ "But I… I still thought you'd _died._ "

Sherlock's face – _Sherlock's face,_ just the way he remembered it only ashen-grey from stress and lack of sleep – twisted into a grimace. "I was only lucky he'd discounted Molly, and that I'd figured out he'd do something like this. But if you thought I was dead, I can understand your emotional turmoil, _brother._ "

The consulting detective spat the word from his lips as though it was poison he'd just sucked out of a snakebite. Mycroft's heart contracted to the point of physical pain. "I… I didn't…"

"Good Lord, have I rendered the great Mycroft Holmes speechless?"

The lazily petulant tone of Sherlock's words was enough to kick his brain back into 'autopilot' function and find the response to such teasing. "Don't be childish."

" _Sherlock Holmes grew up in an ostentatious home on the outskirts of London now used for event hire…_ I wonder where she can have got that information from?" His brother shook his head disgustedly, his lips trembling in a way that brought out all the brotherly instincts Mycroft still possessed to hold and soothe and shelter. "All those times I told people you'd sell me out if someone asked you, I didn't really believe it."

He had no defence, not really, but the politician in him still attempted to muster one. "James Moriarty was… I couldn't have predicted that he –"

"One look at the man and you can tell what he's like!" Sherlock snapped back immediately. "One look and you know he's criminally insane. A mastermind like that, Mycroft, you can't honestly tell me you didn't know how dangerous he was. And he asks for my life story and you just _tell_ it to him?"

"How could I have known?" Mycroft couldn't help but retaliate, feeling more cornered than he ever had in his life. He wanted to stop making excuses, to fall at his brother's feet and beg for forgiveness instead. "I'm sorry. Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

He stepped forwards, bringing a hand to rest gently on top of Sherlock's. "Don't you touch me!" the younger Holmes cried, snatching his hand away. For a moment they stood there, Mycroft's desperate green eyes locked with Sherlock's livid grey ones.

"I'm sorry," Mycroft said again, so softly he wasn't sure his brother had heard it.

Sherlock snorted. "I'll bet." Briefly, the expression of anger and disgust dropped and the consulting detective merely looked exhausted; then he almost seamlessly hitched it back up and drew a sharp breath in. "Deplorable as the situation is, I need your help. Money, and information."

"Of course," Mycroft nodded. "Both, as much as you need."

His brother swallowed. "And… a place to stay for the next week or two. I can't continue to encroach upon Molly's hospitality." Again, the elder Holmes merely dipped his head. Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then sighed. "First of all, though, I'm sure that wasn't the last of that brandy." He gestured to the auburn stain sinking into the carpet. Mycroft grimaced.

"Of course."

He waited until he was back in the kitchen, the empty tumbler clutched in his hand, before he let himself reach out for support and drop the polite smile he'd been wearing. This was quite possibly even worse than before, only that sounded awful – it wasn't that he'd _rather_ Sherlock was dead, of course not. It just hurt so much more somehow to know that his brother knew how deeply he'd betrayed him, and would likely never forgive him.

Instead of pouring two glasses, he grabbed the decanter and an extra glass and went back to deal with the stain.

Sherlock was still sitting in the armchair by the empty fireplace, but he'd dropped the haughty expression of suppressed rage in favour of placing his head in his hands, looking thoroughly broken.

Mycroft banged a tumbler against the decanter gently to alert his brother to his return; somehow seeing him like this seemed too intimate, a sight he had not earned the right to see. At the sound, the detective raised his head, but did not change his expression.

"I really am sorry," Mycroft tried again. "I have been since the moment you first ran into him at the swimming pool. I… I didn't know."

Sherlock sighed and accepted the tumbler. "I know. But you…" He downed the liquid in two swallows, but waved away the decanter when Mycroft offered him more. "You just… everything's so horrible. It's hard to let go of the fact that it's your fault that I had to stand there and make John think that I… that… and now I have to cope with the fact that my best friend thinks I –"

"No, he doesn't." Sherlock's head snapped up. "I told you, we found Moriarty's body. John was so beside himself. I informed him that we'd found the body, and that it was almost certain there had been some sort of threat to him and to others if you hadn't jumped. It… the knowledge did console him somewhat."

The detective sat, shaking, staring up at Mycroft with a desperate expression. "You told him," he repeated slowly, so quiet it was almost a whisper. "So he doesn't think… he doesn't _blame_ me?"

Mycroft would have rolled his eyes were the situation any less serious. "Of course I told him – he never _blamed_ you, Sherlock. John Watson thinks the world of you."

Sherlock allowed him a brief smile. "And I of him."

"I know," Mycroft replied, smiling back. "I'm proud of you, you know," he ventured. Sherlock's left eyebrow made a hesitant trip skywards. "All those times I told you not to connect to people, to give up your wild fantasies and be realistic. I'm proud of you for not listening to me and doing everything anyway."

The younger Holmes stifled a yawn and put aside the empty whiskey tumbler. "Thank you."

"Bed," Mycroft insisted, removing the tumbler. "I'll find you some pyjamas."

Sherlock glared at him, but it was without fire. "Don't mother me, Mycroft," he said, but he stood up anyway, stretching slightly and grimacing as the urge to yawn again came over him.

Mycroft left him – he knew where the spare bedroom was – and found a spare pair of pyjamas from his own bedroom. When he returned to the spare room, it was to find his brother sitting on the bed with his knees drawn up to his chest, wriggling his toes childishly under the duvet. He couldn't help but smile. "Do you remember that time you first told me you wanted to be a pirate?" he asked softly.

His brother looked up at him. "When I asked you to marry me and you said we couldn't?"

He shook his head. "You were five years old. I should have just said yes." Sherlock accepted the pyjamas, but didn't move to change. "I tried to protect you by making sure you didn't make the mistakes I made. I didn't understand. Maybe… maybe if I'd let you try to make friends, you would have had more luck than I did – maybe you'd be a more social person now."

Sherlock actually smiled. "Or maybe I would have been hurt." He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed. "You were too young to have to make those decisions. I blame you, but it's not your fault. You shouldn't have been the one that had to teach me everything."

"Maybe not." Mycroft smiled at his little brother. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

He was at the door before the detective answered. "Thank you, Mycroft. I'm… I'm glad you're my brother. Anyone else might not have cared as much as you did."

He tried to keep a straight face as he left the room, but as soon as the door closed behind him he let the happiness show properly on his face.

He'd always wondered if Sherlock really understood how much he loved him.

"Oh - Mycroft?" issued from inside the spare room. He opened the door again to see his brother half-changed into the grey pinstriped pyjamas. Sherlock grinned.

"Happy Birthday."


End file.
